“Oh my god!” Vicky almost squeals. “We should be durians!”

“Oh my god, we totally should!” Erin agrees in a near-identical tone.

The durian is a fruit native to Southeast Asia and often labeled the ‘king of fruits’. It’s yellow-green and spiky in shape, about the size of a bowling ball (and if you’re unfamiliar with the Western game, about the size of a human head). Inside its dinosaur-hide rind, you’ll find the flesh of the fruit in lobes, similar to how an orange is divided inside its peel. Except instead of fibrous cobwebs separating each one, there’s half-inch thick rind between the edible sections of the fruit. These sections are the color of rich butter, with a consistency somewhere between raw meat and canned mushrooms that’s at once soft, vaguely stringy, and of a slight springiness that disappears after the first serious chew.

The flavor is generally indescribable. But let’s make an effort.

There are two camps on this, likely due to genetic predispositions and inherent biases of taste. Some describe the durian hitting the tongue like a delicate custard mixed with the bouquet of a dozen different flowers. It’s a decadent experience that will compel them to eat the fruit by the sackful if they can afford it. Others find the taste and especially the aroma to be more reminiscent of hot summer garbage steeped in baby diarrhea. They gag at the smell, which wafts from the alien-looking fruit hanging in many a market stall, and give it wide berth. This dichotomy of affinity has led to the banning of the durian from most public transportation and hotels/hostels in this part of the globe. This has even spawned the creation of a ‘no durians’ symbol like the one you often see for ‘no smoking’ in restaurants and movie theaters.

It is this controversial fruit that has given the two girls inspiration for their costumes. Specifically the nearby Durian Roundabout. The Durian Roundabout, one of the several traffic circles in Kampot though the only one with a prominent, fifteen-foot high sculpture of the king of fruits, sits at the head of a local night market. Vicky and Erin, two Canadian backpackers fresh out of college, won’t let being on the other side of the planet stop them from celebrating Halloween tonight! And that means costumes! The market sells many of the kitschy clothes travelers come to expect, and these girls are looking for yellow shirts onto which they can draw some spikes. Oh, maybe even a cute yellow or green hat to go with it?

The Canadian pair, followed by Ran and Matt, stalk through the market, hunting for just the right top for their ensemble. The four have just been dropped off from their day trip to the Kampot pepper fields, temple caves, and the nearby fishing village of Kep, known for its crab. All day the guys have been chatting in bits of Hebrew rather than Ran’s near-perfect English.

“[I don’t think they have a…]” Matt says, forgetting the word. “A sheet. A bit of cloth big enough to make a toga.”

“[Have hope! You will find something here!]” Ran encourages him. He spreads his arms to take in the bounty of stalls lining the streets and alleys. The gesture doubles to check for rain from the darkening sky. It’s not just sunset. A storm is coming.

That doesn’t bother Ran. Ran’s always optimistic and smiling.

* * *

It’s raining, but it rains most evenings in Kampot, even if it’s just for a furious half an hour like tonight.

It’s the night before Matt plans to take a day trip with the two Canadian girls to Kep and he can feel his evening coming to a close. He’d prefer to have a fourth for the day trip, to split the costs and conversation, but who to bring?

He steps out from the hostel’s bar and walks over to one of the last few still awake and downstairs. The man’s lanky with a short beard, maybe two-weeks growth, and dark hair to match the length over a narrow-ish head. He’s sitting under the awning of Mad Monkey by the pool, avoiding the worst of the rain. Lanky Man has been around the bar all evening, but he and Matt haven’t had a chat yet.

That’s quickly remedied and when they get to talking, something sounds unusual in his almost-musical accent. “Atah m’daber Ivirit? [You speak Hebrew?]” the Yeshiva-schooled American asks.

Lanky Man does. He’s from Israel, his throaty voice warbles. Thirty-one years old and traveling through Southeast Asia after quitting his job as a bank manager. He’s smiling, and when he’s not, he’s on the verge of it. His name is Ran, pronounce ‘Rahn’.

The two dig deeper into their conversation and Matt pulls out a US dollar bill, still grateful his native currency is so ubiquitous in Cambodia.

“What are you doing?” Ran asks.

“[I’m making a bitch– a dog],” Matt is practicing using his rusty second language for the simple stuff and English for the rest. He scoots his chair closer to avoid the run-off from the roof that’s grazing his shoulders. “But it’s better if I start with how I got into it. It’s a story about my family…”

* * *

From the first landing of the hostel, one can hear it’s just started to drizzle. The word ‘drizzle’, however, doesn’t really have much meaning in this area of the world. The weather is all-or-nothing, take-no-prisoners. If it’s drizzling, it’s because the rain front has just moved in and it’s only a matter of minutes before the real downpour begins. But Mad Monkey wouldn’t let something like rain ruin their Halloween party!

At least Matt hopes not. He’d not been able to find a bolt of cloth at the market, but when his dorm mate Jehan’a suggested it, he saw no reason not to use the sheet off of his bed. With the practice of a true fraternity brother, he’d wrapped himself in a serviceable toga, and made his way back downstairs.

“Hey, nice Zeus costume!” someone from the crowded bar area calls out.

That’s right. With the fifteen week-old beard and toga Matt certainly looks like the Greek god of the sky.

“Yeah, but you think you could maybe ease up on the rain?” another voice chimes in. “We’re trying to have a party!”

The bar itself is well-sheltered from the storm, but as the haphazardly costumed patrons get their drinks and go to sit down, they come dangerously close to the edge of the awning and the wall of rain that splatters across the invisible divide to wet the tiles and their toes. As it is, the beer pong and swimming pool have been abandoned to the downpour.

Matt postures to the sight of lightning in the distance, fist high in the air. “One cannot command the will of the mighty Zeus!” He pauses and turns to Jehan’a, who has chosen ‘backpacker’ as her costume tonight. “Can you get a picture of me in the toga?”

“Sure,” And Jehan’a snaps off a few with his proffered phone. As a fellow Washington D.C. transient (before she quit her job to come travel as well), the genetically tanned woman is quite skilled in phone-photography.

Matt selects his favorite and WhatsApps it to his girlfriend Chelsea, even though she’s probably sitting at work and won’t get it until she leaves.

* * *

Chelsea exits the building and finds her car in the asphalt expanse of the parking lot. She pulls her scarf tighter in the autumn chill and quickens her steps. Although she’s leaving work early, there’s still so much to do to set up for the Halloween party she’s hosting with Heather. Given that she’s preparing to move in a week, her Halloween efforts are a bit more subdued than usual, but she has still prepared a few themed treats. She’s especially excited to see how the Jello-shot earthworms turn out!

Sliding into the front seat of her car, she turns on her phone and braces for the epileptic fit it’s about to have. Her Washington D.C. office doesn’t allow cell phones onto the premises, so her phone stays off in her glove compartment until the workday is done. And then messages and alerts all come pouring in, a landslide of digital communication. After a minute the vibrating comes to a rest. Chelsea’s friends, none of whom has such limitations at their workplace, appropriately call this eruption of messages after a prolonged period of being out of service ‘getting Chelsea-ed’.

She sifts through it all and finds the picture from Matt. Aw, he had put together such a creative Zeus costume! And they’d match this year, even continents apart. She hadn’t even told him she’d decided last night on being a Greek goddess this Halloween, toga and all.

* * *

The flash of longing to share his costume and evening with his girlfriend fades when Matt notices a familiar long-haired young man sitting at the thick wooden table nearby getting a pink-colored shot from Greg, the owner of the hostel. “Hey, what’s in that one?” he asks.

“This one? I dunno!” the young man says with the hint of a slur, or is it his Dutch accent? If he’s not drunk yet, he’s certainly well on his way. His name is Philip.

This afternoon Philip had rented a motorbike from Mad Monkey and tried to bike to the top of the nearby Bokor Mountain and the associated natural park. The scenery is said to be beautiful and nestled between the peaks, overlooking a valley, is a completely abandoned Chinese-built casino. It’s one of the must-sees for anyone looking to motorbike in Cambodia, but Philip had run into a snag. He’d taken the advised three liters of extra gasoline, but halfway up the mountain road the bike had given out. No amount of trying by him or passing motorists could get it going again. He’d thought he could make it, but alas.

So he’d returned to the hostel and explained what had happened to the staff and, shortly after, to Greg himself. The usually jovial owner, an Australian in his low-thirties who loves every minute of running his own corner of the Mad Monkey business (it’s a foreign-owned franchise of hostels in Cambodia), turned serious and not only refunded Philip’s bike rental, but promised him as many free shots as he could handle. But not just any old shots for Philip, no. The long haired blonde backpacker gets shots of all kinds. Sex on the beach, slippery nipple, tequila sunrise, liquid cocaine, and shots so exotic they probably have no name outside of Cambodia. That might be for a good reason.

Philip doesn’t care what they’re called, he’s downing each one with gusto. He’s a good sport and had been since his electric personality had lit up last night.

* * *

“Who’s doing a kamikaze?” Greg grins out at the assorted patrons of the bar. “You’re doing one! I know you’re doing one!” He points at a pair of travelers.

Edward and Rob are definitely in; they’re British! Philip, standing nearby chatting with Matt, snaps his head around and volunteers them both over Matt’s vain protests of wanting to stick with beer. Also sucked into the vortex of free kamikazes is a tall, lanky man with a short beard. They all line up at the bar while Greg fills the highball glasses from an assortment of bottles.

“Now gents, this is a Kampot kamikaze,” Greg grandstands as he pours from three different containers. “So it has a goodly amount of Red Bull… a shot of absinthe… and,” he slants the last bottle, one filled with an oozy black  liquid. “Some Kampot pepper liquor.”

The flavor of the concoctions that they end up chugging lasts longer than the grimaces it also leaves behind. They each add one to the running tally for their respective countries, listed on the chalkboard on the side of the bar, and stagger back to their seats. Greg laughs at what he’s wrought and feigns mock affront when none of them accept the offer for a second one.

Philip leans back into the hard wooden chair, looking around to find more than an hour has passed in conversation with the two Brits, Matt, and Ran, the guy Matt pulled over from down by the pool after popping off for a bit. Only the guys from the Kampot Kamikaze are still awake. The local employees are wordlessly flipping chairs up onto the other tables, the universal sign for ‘we’re done here’.

Philip’s head leans to one side. “You think they would be mad if I jumped in the pool?”

“Jump in the pool?” Rob says in a deadpan question. “They keep shushing us, so I yeah, I think they’d be mad.”

Phil eyes the swimming pool less than three yards away. The water spills gently over the plaster edges, overfull with rainwater. “Yeah…” he decides.

The others turn away and begin discussing something else when they hear the slap of feet on wet tiles and a telling cry of “Bellyflop!” followed by the equally telling splash.

* * *

Greg slams the table between Matt and Philip, the Kampot kamikazes he’s brought over sloshing over the rims a little at their contact with the table. “One for you, sir,” he says, looking at Philip. “And one for this year’s costume contest winner!”

Philip raises his glass in salute, but Matt’s still in shock. “I won? With a bedsheet toga?”

“You’re Zeus,” Greg says, as if that’s reason enough. “If I don’t show my respect, this storm could get out of hand!”

He’s not wrong. The raindrops have transformed into rain-nails shot from the heavens. The tin roof over the bar area shudders when a particularly strong burst hits and the lightning off in the distance has come a bit closer. Thunder barks in from the night at more and more frequent intervals.

“Have no fear, mortal,” the wannabe-Zeus puffs out his chest and deepens his voice. “Your fine establishment shall be preserved!”

Greg laughs and rolls his eyes, leaving with a hearty clap on the back.

The recipients of the aptly-named, self-destroying drinks eye the glasses and then each other. “It’s free…so we might as well,” their looks say.

“I’ll go mark one down for America and the Netherlands, yeah?” Matt hisses, one forceful chug later.

Philip nods and waves him away.

The costume contest champion adjusts his toga, but before he can make his way past the partygoers in slapdash facepaint of pandas and clowns to the chalkboard in the back, he comes upon another familiar Netherlander. “Ruben?!”

The six-foot-five, yet somehow still boyish-looking face turns back. “Matt?!”

The American goes in for a hug of reunion, but pulls up short. “What’s this? Your costume?”

Ruben shakes his head, wishing the sling over his right arm is just a prop. “When did I last see you? Three weeks ago? In Halong Bay?”

Ruben had been another protesting participant of Snaggletooth Timmy’s regimented tour of Halong Bay. Originally left at the docks due to buying some shady tickets, he and his friend Shae had been allowed to board a different boat at the last minute. The boat containing Matt, Wallis, Omar, Thibault, and a host of others excited to see the islands of the North Vietnamese waters.

“No, I remember I saw you on my last day in Hoi An–”

Ruben’s eye go wide. “Yes! When I was buying my motorbike!” His skin ripples with goosebumps. “Man, I have to tell you this!”

* * *

Ruben sits atop his motorbike–his potential motorbike–and thinks about it. He doesn’t really know anything about bikes. What to look for in one, how to care for one…but everyone says that biking in Vietnam, that’s the real adventure! That’s the real experience. He smiles at the thought of buying this bike, his first one ever.

He fingers the grooves on the steering and adjusts his footing, making ready to launch the bike to life again and go down the road one more time, but stops. “Hey! Matt?” he calls out, now more certain. “Matt!”

The limping form of the young man trudging up the street with his backpack stops and turns. “Ah, Ruben! Omar told me you were in Hoi An!” He pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose where the sweat has been easing them down. “What’s up? Buying a bike?”

“Yeah! I think I’m going to buy this one.” The sharp-featured Netherlander looks up from the handlebars. “You leaving today?”

“Yeap,” Matt hikes his pack a bit higher on his back. “Taking the train to Ho Chi Minh City, then Cambodia. I’m pretty much done with Vietnam for now.”

“Ah, I’ll be heading down that way, but not for a little while. Maybe see you around again?”

“Maybe.” The American shrugs and starts to walk away. “Be careful with that bike, man!” he calls back.

Ruben nods and waves. Yeah, he decides, other thoughts forgotten. He’s buying this bike.

A week later and Ruben’s loving his decision! The wind whips his shirt around him and the hum from the engine warms him from the inside out. He’s gripping the local man sitting in front of him, who has agreed to take him and his bike through some of the more winding roads in these southern Vietnam mountains. Lean and turn, and rev and watch the greens and greys of the foggy jungles below dance and spin.

Ruben realizes he’s laughing. Who said you needed anything other than the courage to seize life by the reigns and really get goin–wait!

That girl! That teenage girl is stepping onto the road! She’s too close! They can’t stop in time–!

* * *

Ruben slaps his chest with his good hand like a clap of thunder. “We tried to swerve out of the way and the bike tipped over and we went skidding down the road.” He twists his arm to reveal a mass of scabs from elbow to palms. “The girl was fine, we didn’t even hit her, but I lost the skin on my hands, my arms–I had to walk with a crutch. I just got rid of it. Matt,” he steps in closer, “promise me you will not ride a motorbike out here.”

Matt promises, he can barely control a bike with pedals let alone one with a motor. Besides, about one in four of the people he’s met who have ridden anything stronger than a bicycle have some sort of crash story. He has no interest in becoming part of that statistic.

After a bit more of catching up, Matt makes his way back out to find his table with Phil packed with more familiar people.

“Gigit!” The humble traveler smiles at Matt’s exclamation and excitement to rush over. “And Heather and Ali! You guys came!”

“Of course! We figured we’d meet you out here instead of going to Arcadia again. It’s too wild!”

“I can’t agree more!” Matt grins. He’d met the couple at the bungalow’ed hostel on the river four nights ago. Matt straightens as if shocked: he’s been in Kampot for almost a week already!

* * *

“You said your name is Allie?” Matt asks of the wavy-haired young man over a pint, under Arcadia’s gently rotating neon LEDs.

“Ali,” he corrects, his face cast in odd-angled shadows of blue and orange. “Short for Alistair.” It’s a British name (for a young man from Southern England, this makes sense). Ali is a bit younger than Matt, though they quickly get on the subject of the books they’re reading. Ali’s just finishing Superfreakonomics after reading a few other novels picked up along the way. “I’m liking this one, actually, but I’m none too keen on The Secret Life of Bees. It’s well-written, but not my type of novel.”

“You’re reading all of these in paperbacks? Like, picking them up as you go and trading them along your route?”

“Yeap.”

“That’s crazy! Why don’t you just get a Kindle? I’ve got one and it’s got hundreds of books to choose from. Some literature I want to read, some essays, and a whole bunch of guilty-pleasure fantasy like The Wheel of Time series.”

“Oh yeah! I love me some Robert Jordan!”

“It’s amazing, right?! Books seven through ten are pretty much fluff, but Sanderson, the guy they got to ghostwrite the last three after Jordan died, those are damn good.”

The boys geek-out over their favorite characters, plot twists and disappointments from the fourteen-book saga.

Heather, Ali’s girlfriend, watches with much eye-rolling.

“You really ought to get a kindle, man.” Matt says and shakes his head. “And do you travel with a laptop? I’m all about my Chromebook.”

“Yeah, I have a laptop, but I don’t know anything about this Chromebook or whatever.” Ali cuts off the Google fanboy before he can list the benefits of owning one. “I picked mine based on the color, blue-silver. And because of how nicely it opens. Very smooth, very satisfying.”

Matt goggles at him. Those are the worst reasons to choose a piece of technology! Ali must know how much this frustrates him. He winks.

Heather takes this lull as an opportunity to switch the topic of conversation to something she can talk about, since she hates not being able to contribute. Words tumble out in a plucky British accent. Do you ski? No? No worries! She and Ali are huge ski bums. Heather didn’t used to be into it until she wanted to go to Italy on a high school trip and had to take up skiing to be eligible to go. And now she loves it! God, she loves it! They both just dropped everything to come out on holiday and travel for a bit. Wait. How do you feel about dragons? Heather’s into dragons, like into-into dragons. Pretty much any kind of dragon! Have you seen How To Train Your Dragon 2 yet? She clasps her throat. Oh my god, it’s so good! Not better than How To Train Your Dragon one, like that’s even possible. It’s still a great movie that builds on everything they did right in the first one! God, twenty-four is the best year of her life right now! And seriously? You ought to go see How To Train Your Dragon 2.

Heather takes a deep breath to steady herself from the excitement that dragons evoke and it’s Ali’s turn to roll his eyes. Matt just laughs in amusement. This couple is awesome!

“That’s a pretty fantastic beard,” she pivots the conversation again. “How long have you been growing it?” Matt smiles and opens his mouth to answer her, but he doesn’t get a chance. “Isn’t it a great beard, Clara?” Heather turns to the quiet young woman next to her.

Clara agrees in a word that whispers of her German nationality, before hiding her round face behind the side of a glass. She had been staring at Matt’s facial hair when Heather had roped her into the conversation.

“Well, I think beards are awesome,” Heather continues. “I keep trying to get Ali to grow one, more than this goatee thing, but he says he doesn’t want to.” She tousles his shaggy hair.

“I want to,” her boyfriend tells Matt. “I want to, it just comes in all patchy,” he directs at Heather, squinting.

Heather squints and pouts back, the now-purple lights accenting her features.

* * *

The flare of lightning throws the shadows of the Mad Monkey Halloween party into stark relief. Thunder erupts nearby, drowning out the conversation and music so only a few startled gasps can squeak through. The storm has reached its full force. Tiny, pockmarked waves billow across the swimming pool, hurled by the gusts that bend nearby palm trees.

Lightning strikes all around at a frequency of more than a bolt a minute (Matt times it). So close that the crack of the lightning hits not even seconds after the blue-white plasma arcs through the sky.

The remaining partygoers shy back even further from the awning’s edge. Ten feet, fifteen feet, all to avoid not just the splatter, but the almost sideways-blown rain. It’s past midnight now and many have started going back to their respective hostels if they don’t have beds here. Others who do have mostly moved inside to get away from the open-air bar’s weather.

“Hey,” Ali says, his voice sturdier to stand up to the storm’s shrieking, “you think maybe the real Zeus is pissed at you for pretending to be him all night?”

“What do you mean the real Zeus?” Matt asks as another boom echoes through the night. “I’m the only Zeus there is!” There’s no such thing as a real Zeus.

“I’m just saying!” Ali fights to be heard. He points his chin down at Heather, clinging to her boyfriend like the stray wisps of hair that cling to her face. “I think we’re gonna make our way home.”

“In this?” Jehan’a asks. Only Philip, Matt, Rob, and she remain at the table. Gigit, Ran, and the others have since left, dissuaded by the storm.

“Yeah, it’s just gonna keep up and we’d rather get home sooner than later.”

“Well, okay,” Jehan’a admits skeptically. “It was great meeting you! And get home safe!” She knows the two of them are going to ride Ali’s scooter back to their hostel.

“Yeah,” Matt adds, giving them a hug and then re-adjusting his toga. “And thanks for lending me Superfreakonomics. It’s great so far!”

“It only gets better!”

“I’m sure! And get home safe!”

“It was good meeting you, too!” Philip chimes in with his goodbye. “And get home safe!”

“Can everyone please stop saying ‘get home safe’?” Ali blurts. “It’s really freaking me out.”

Another stab of lightning, though the lessening volume from the roof indicates the rain is starting to let up.

After seeing his friends take off and despite their uncertain fate, Matt grins. Finally he has a chance to pee! He toes around the tables and puddles of water, and ducks out into the rain only briefly to get to the bathroom. Strangely enough it opens to the pool area and not the bar. He splashes onto the walkway, just for a second, but it’s enough to coat his glasses and drip through his hair. He flings open the door and quickly launches himself inside and out of the weather. But his anticipation turns to dread as his wet, bare feet (shoes are left at the front desk in many Cambodian hostels) slip on the clay-tiled restroom floor.

“Oh shit.”

The walls lurch upwards, the floor rushes to greet him, and in the surprise of freefall Matt thrusts out a hand for something, anything, to catch himself. His fingers find a pipe and they instinctively grab hold, but the aluminum and shoddy construction are no match for the bedsheet-wrapped American. It rips from the wall and sink with a ringing thunk, loosing grey-black sludge everywhere. He lands hard and damply, groaning and rolling slowly at the pain pouring in from the bruises that will surely show themselves on his leg and hip.

Minutes later Matt tries not to limp out of the bathroom, having jammed the pipe back pretty much where it was and used the spray gun (normally used in lieu of toilet paper out here) to wash away the grime. He has his toga off and wound up into a ball, the dirtiest parts on the inside. There’s no reason to go advertise to the hostel staff that he had anything to do with soon-to-be-necessary bathroom repair.

He gets back under the awning of the mostly deserted bar. “Fine! You win!” he calls out to the storm. “I’m sorry, you’re the better Zeus! Is that what you wanted?” He cuts off and scuttles inside when the locals who are trying to prevent Philip from jumping into the pool turn to look at him.

“What happened to the toga?” Jehan’a asks when he passes her in the lobby.

“What? Oh, yeah. I just, uh, didn’t think I should be wearing it anymore.”

Matt doesn’t wait for a response before hustling up the stairs to look for a hiding place for his once-proud toga.

Outside, the rain continues to let up, though the clouds still rumble, albeit softer than they had been minutes before.

A picture taken from the Kep shoreline of the storm that would hit Kampot later that night

The Durian Roundabout in downtown Kampot, in all its glory

Kampot is well-known (apparently) for it’s pepper. Here are peppercorns laying out to dry with unripe green corns drying to black. Only ripe, red corns dry into red pepper.